


Breathing Burning Boning

by squiddlydivine



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Beheading, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Clone Sex, Gore, Heavy BDSM, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, Pain, Pain Kink, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Smut, dirkjohn, except he isnt really dead??, extreme masochism, headless sex, john literally cuts dirks head off, john pulls dirks veins out with his teeth, john tongues dirks throat and nerve endings, necrophelia, sex dungeon, sexy beheading, sexy murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:07:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25734043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddlydivine/pseuds/squiddlydivine
Summary: Speaking of which,  he stands above you now. The John from earlier today, who had stared you down with a bright glint in his eye over the breakfast table, told you he wanted to behead you, and then promptly disappeared has his hands cupped over your scalp, curling through your hair and breaking out the gel. The John from right now, who had rushed you down into the dungeon after checking his watch and exclaiming “Oh, I’m here now!”  straddles your waist, his jeans rubbing against your bare torso as he squirms.**John Egbert suggests they play around with beheading. Two retcon johns, one dirk, one knife, and lots and lots of gore.
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	Breathing Burning Boning

**Author's Note:**

> FUCK you guys okay beheading is so sexy if you dont think so simply dont read this but god do I wish someone would rip out my veins through my half cut open neck anyways have fun dont vomit!

As you lie back on the wooden platform, unfinished planks threatening to splinter into the bare skin of your back, you wonder if this is really a good idea. You can’t die like this- it’s impossible. You can’t die at all, unless it’s just or heroic, but that doesn’t make it any less daunting when it’s only seconds away.  
  


When you were a kid you wouldn’t have thought twice about it- in fact, you’d fucking done this before, skull ripped mercilessly away from you in a split second as you transportalized it. And you’d been dead for a moment then, too. Technically, this time, you wouldn’t die at all; that’s what John had promised you, anyways. He had some freaky shit going on with his own godtier powers now that you didn’t quite understand; he had retcon abilities, and combined with the powers he had from being a breath player, he could do some insane things. Insane things like zipping himself double into your expensively styled fantasy dungeon so that he can sit and regulate oxygen to your brain and body. Usually, regulating oxygen is something your body does on it’s own, but it won’t be able to after John cuts your head off.  
  
Speaking of which, he stands above you now. The John from earlier today, who had stared you down with a bright glint in his eye over the breakfast table, told you he wanted to behead you, and then promptly disappeared has his hands cupped over your scalp, curling through your hair and breaking out the gel. The John from right now, who had rushed you down into the dungeon after checking his watch and exclaiming “Oh, I’m here now!” straddles your waist, his jeans rubbing against your bare torso as he squirms.  
  
“Are you sure?” Breakfast John whimpers hesitantly, and Now John whines, the sound muted by his closed mouth as he grinds his hips expectantly against you. You only hesitate for a second.  
“Yeah, it’s cool,” You decide, and shift your head slightly, angling your chin back and exposing the bare flesh of your neck more than before. Now John huffs out a long breath of held-in air and grinds. Breakfast John gulps, his hands tightening slightly in your curls. They twitch forward for a second, towards the large butcher’s knife sitting on the wooden platform next to you, but he keeps them firmly locked in your hair, holding himself back. He knows he’ll get his turn later, in 12 or so hours. For now, it's Now John's privilege to slice into your throat.  
  
He leans impatiently over your torso to grab the blade by the handle, and he stares down at it with wide gleeful eyes. He’d been in Breakfast John’s place those 12 or so hours ago, condemned to focus on your circulatory abilities and watch as Now John had fun. When he’d come back to the present- or, you guess, the past, around lunchtime- he’d been obscenely horny. You’d almost managed to snag him into the shower and your bed a few different times between then and now, but he’d refused at the last moment each time, telling you he needed to wait for this. You were expecting the best, at this point, for all the trouble he’d gone through to keep himself edged for the occasion. You were all for orgasm denial, but John was usually way worse at sticking it out than you.  
“Ready?” he breathed lightly, and you wiggled slightly to “get comfortable,” purposefully pushing your abdomen up against his crotch. He whined again, pushing you down gently with one hand on your shoulder to steady himself. He held the knife at the ready, tip poised elegantly above your Adam's apple. You watched the skin move around as you swallowed, the light glinting off the monstrous blade of the thing. You’d pushed for a sword, but John had been right- the tortury vibe of an overly enormous pig-carving knife was really doing it for you.  
“I’m ready,” You breathed, voice low and gravelly as your throat ran dry. John lowered the knife slowly, the tip pressing into your neck so lightly you could barely feel it. He looked at you again, making eye contact, pupils blown as he raised an eyebrow in final acquisition. You nodded, and as you did, the knife dug slightly further into your flesh. John grinned wickedly, and with one soft nudge of his hand, the blade sliced through the top layers of your skin, blood beading slowly and silkily from the veins hugging the cold metal. You hissed, the air burning as you sucked it down, and John moaned. His hips ground forcefully against your own, and as he thrust his waist downwards, his hand pushed too, the knife sticking two inches deeper into your neck. Your air supply was cut short as the knife became a blockade in your throat, and you revelled in the familiar feeling of being choked, your dick throbbing as your chest burned. When the feeling didn’t ease up as you were used to, you gasped a breath, the air catching in your mouth and causing you to choke. You floundered for a moment, knife digging deeper as you thrashed, before John pulled the knife out and air began flowing to your lungs again. You still felt weak, your oxygen supply leaking steadily through your wound with every breath you took, and your throat being drenched in your own blood. Now John sighed heavily, his grinding hips becoming slower and more languished as he watched you struggle. Your own erection burned, but the pain was nothing but a passing thought in comparison with the stinging breathlessness that stole your focus. That changed for a moment when John carefully rolled his hips backwards, dragging the denim of his jeans forcefully over your boxers and causing you to yelp in surprise. As you did, you felt your throat tear apart a little more, a new wave of deep red pushing out to coat your pale skin.  
  
“Good?” John asks you, reaching forward to run his thumb over your wound. You try to respond, but you simply cough up blood, so you settle for nodding, which isn’t much better. Crimson spurts up under John’s thumb, and he draws it back excitedly to lick it off. “I’m going to go further now,” he tells you slowly, “And wider. Okay?” he asks, and you nod again. Without his thumb over your cut, the blood shoots up in a small stream that comes back down on your chest and face. You cough violently, more blood shooting from your neck and dribbling down your chin, your mouth entirely full of it. Your air supply is getting dangerously low now, but you won’t tap for Breakfast John to inflate your lungs just yet. First, you want to-  
John brings the knife down swiftly, horizontally this time, and slices clean through the top half of your neck. You scream, your brain running overtime on too little oxygen for three seconds before Breakfast John flicks a finger and your brain can function again. The sensation isn’t like breathing, the air being filtered straight from your exposed veins to your brain. There’s no blood to carry it as you bleed out, so John uses his powers to push it straight through you. He does the same to your torso, filling your lungs and forcing the oxygen through your slowly draining veins to keep your body running. You twitch your fingers, testing out their function; they run as smooth as ever, if a little sorely. John pulls the knife back, and you watch, your gazy shifting slowly and painfully, as he licks your dripping gore off of it. Your dick aches at the sight, like something out of a hentai, and you groan loudly, bucking up into him. The knife jostles in his hand, and he almost drops it into your gut before catching it. You don’t think you would have minded. 

  
You find that making noise is easier now, but hurts no less. It doesn’t stop you from wheezing out John’s name, your tone scratchy and barely understandable. He shushes you, stroking your chin with his palm and dragging his fingers down your chin to dig into your open wound. Your flesh burns as he rubs at it, his thumb catching on your throat and tugging. The remaining connection of the passageway is ripped apart, and you moan at the sharp, horrible pain it causes. John moans with you, dipping his head down to kiss and suck at the inside of your bleeding neck like a vampire. He’s not one- he’s just kinky as hell. His incisors graze your bare nerve endings, blood coating his teeth and nose and chin. He fastens his bite onto something in your neck and tugs, and you watch with rapt attention as a vein is torn roughly away from your body, barely registering the sharp pain as you wince and gasp, rutting your hips again. You watch your vein dangle from between John’s buck teeth, red dripping from the bottom end. He nudges himself backwards carefully, dragging it down your chest and stomach and painting you in your own fluid. It pulls lightly over your boxers, and you shiver.  
“John,” you rasp needily, and he shushes you again, pulling your entrail from his mouth and laying it at his side so that he can kiss you properly. His lips are gentle against your cheek and lips, a sharp contrast from the biting kiss he’d placed on your throat. You whine into him, and this time when your hips jut upwards, he indulges you, grinding both of your wrists together forcefully before reaching for the knife again, a thick line of your blood hanging between your lips and his for a moment before breaking as he pulls back.  
  
Breakfast John whimpers, his fingers tensing in your hair as he squirms. You cast your gaze backwards- his crotch is at your eye level as he stands next to the platform, and yeah, he’s gotta be hurting right now. You reach an arm backwards tentatively, and upon finding it capable of function, you reach over your head to rub him through his pants. He tenses, and you feel the oxygen leave you completely for just a second before he regains focus. When it returns, there’s definitely slightly more going to your own erection, and it burns in a wonderfully painful sensation that has you keening. Your whole mind is consumed with it, pain pain pain, as you bleed out from the throat and John’s jeans rub forcefully against your overly aroused dick. It feels so horrible in the perfect way, forcing tears to stream down your cheeks and your muscles to shake.  
“One more,” Now John slurs, and the knife hovers above you again. You quickly focus, forcing your heart powers to kick into gear so that you can manifest your mind to keep functioning with your body after the connection to your brain has been severed. John brings the knife down slowly this time, and you feel it tear through each layer of your flesh until it hits the wood below you, your screaming echoing in the dungeon as you writhe in pain, your erection jostling forcefully against John as you do and causing a whole separate wave of pain to wash over you simultaneously. A moment later, Breakfast John carefully lifts your head, and Now John zips forward to lick and suck at the entirely exposed bottom of the cut, his entire face coated in the spurting blood. You sob and whine as you feel his tongue inside your throat, on your muscles and nerves, and when he pulls away once more, Breakfast John sets you facing him and your body in a way where you can see clearly. You move your arm, to see if you still can, and you're resigned to realize that even with the remote connection to your nerves, you don’t have enough input to really move. The reception to your body’s nerves works fine, if delayed. as John digs his fingers into the top of your chopped neck and grinds against you, both sensations reach you a good few seconds after their occurrences. You can still feel your erection, supported by Breakfast John’s steady control of air through your veins, but now all you can really do about it is wait for Now John to do something about it.  
  
You watch with your eyes half-lidded as he reaches around your waist, turning over your body and angling you in a way where he can fuck you properly. His gaze flicks up momentarily to meet your own, and he flashes in embarrassment as you raise an eyebrow. Blood pools around the base of your neck, more still spurting between your lips as your mouth slowly empties of it. He shudders as you open your mouth to speak, another large push of blood gushing over your lips. You grin wickedly.  
  
“What’s wrong, John? You got my head, now give me yours.” You command, and he nods shakily, crawling backwards slightly and fumbling with the button of his jeans. When he finally manages to undo the fastening, he throws them to the side, kicking his boxers off with his leg and pulling yours away at the same time. When he manages it, he doesn’t hesitate, slipping on a condom and pushing in dry. You hiss as you feel the sensation a moment later, your asshole burning as he starts moving slowly back and forth inside you. You try to grind back against him before remembering you can’t; you have no control over your motor functions, your body just a warm doll for him now. You’re free to sit on your throat and watch raptly as John grinds up against you, his hips moving in slow and careful circles, biting back your own noises of pained bliss as he moves. He does no such thing, letting his half-strangled string of curses and nonsense ring freely through the stone room as he picks up the pace. His face screws up, and you know he’s close; there was no chance of him lasting long after the day he’d had.  
  


When he finally hits orgasm, you can only tell by the cut-off cry that leaves his mouth, the feeling not catching up to you until a few seconds later when your brain catches up to your nerves to relay the tightening of your own ass as he pounds into your prostate and then lets go. You don’t even realize you’re there too until you see it happen from 3rd person, your headless body tensing where it’s perched as white ropes of cum. When the feeling hits you, you’re already half-lost in the overwhelming pain and overstimulation. Now John reaches hazily forward again, tugging you gently from Breakfast John’s grasp and pressing his lips feverishly into yours, his tongue dipping into your mouth and ass far down your throat as he can make it go. It doesn’t reach the other end of your chopped neck, and you can tell he’s disappointed, so you kiss him back with a passion despite the shooting and burning sensation it sends through your skull. He licks the blood off of your chin and you lick it from his, although it doesn’t do much to clean it away. When the both of you are too tired, he flops backwards over your unmoving torso and perches your head on his own chest so that he can stare lovingly up at you.  
  
“You done?” you tease him, and he hums lazily.  
“Yeah. Do you want to go now?” he replies, and you try to nod before realizing you can’t, affirming out loud. Now John waves a hand lazily at Breakfast John, and the squirming 12-hours-ago rendition of your boyfriend disappears with a loud pop to rejoin 6-hours-ago you for the rest of the day. As he goes, you feel the air he’d been circulating to you slowly fade, and you lose your body before your brain finally runs out of oxygen and you fade to black. The dying is a lot less daunting in your post-orgasm haze, and when you’re revived by the lasting SBURB mechanic of your godtier, your head is fully reattached. Blood still soaks you and John, but he pulls you carefully off of the wooden slab and carries you up out of the dungeon so that the both of you can shower. You wrap your arms around his neck, planting a sloppy, tired kiss to his jawline.  
“Thanks for murdering me, babe,” you slur, and he snorts.  
“No problem, asshole.” he replies, and you grin, biting his throat lightly in the place where he had chopped yours in half before zoning out, allowing him to carry you to the bathroom where you’d get cleaned off and ready for bed. 


End file.
